Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

17. Bigger Than Jesus

Carnival of Light

17.

At first glance, Beatrix Beauford is an elegant young woman of a certain privilege, but beneath the exterior of a well-educated debutante lies an imaginative author and poet whose colourful prose explores the nature of consciousness and reality.

Her fans range from British Vogue Editor in Chief Beatrix Miller to the Beatles to the editors of avant garde magazines like Ambit and The Paris Review.

"We're at an exciting moment in time where our society is changing," Miss Beauford says. "The old rules no longer apply. And that especially applies to art and ideas about what art should be or can be. If you throw the rules out the window the possibilities for expression are endless."

***

I couldn't bring myself to read the rest of Maureen's interview. It was the most fuss I'd ever had made of me in my life and I hated it. The whole day was one big fuss, starting with an outrageous bouquet of flowers from Matthew to celebrate my book.

"Darling, I'm so proud of you, you've only gone and done it, haven't you!" he gushed over the telephone. 

Barney and Lavinia rang me up to congratulate me and Lavinia read my Vogue interview over the telephone even when I begged her to stop. 

"Oh Bea Bea, it's just marvellous," Lavinia sighed. "And you look so beautiful in the picture!"

The David Bailey pictures were gorgeous even if my fringe was a bit of a mess and I was smoking. But I was always smoking so that was inevitable. The Evening Standard included one with their interview, too.

I went for lunch with my editor Norah Smallwood and her assistant Doreen, and they came bearing congratulations from Leanoard Woolf, who would have liked to join us. I told Norah about the novel I'd begun and her enthusiasm for it nearly bowled me over.

I went for dinner with Poppy, Sir Mark, Tara and Suki in Mayfair, followed by drinks in Soho where we were joined by Sue and Miles before we all went on to Robert Fraser's flat on Mount Street, where he was having a party for me.

"Please don't make a fuss!" I insisted as Fraser popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. "Really, I don't want to make a fuss!"

It was a great party. Mick, Keith, Brian and Anita were there as were there like they always were. William Burroughs showed up for one drink, and he brought Ian Sommerville, who stayed for longer, laughing when I proudly explained how a four-track tape machine works, and just about got it right. Antonioni showed up with Christopher Gibbs, as did Andy Warhol's friend Barbara Rubin, who told me I should leave London and come to New York where I'd be better appreciated. Marianne and Dunbar stopped by together but they had a fight and she left before I got to say hello.

I accepted a little sniff of cocaine from Fraser at this stage. I'd had so much champagne I was starting to get sleepy. Another remarkable thing about coke – it makes you think you're sober even if you've been drinking for ages and ages.

And then Paul arrived. He brought Mal with him, and they both looked pretty toasty.

"Hullo, love," Paul slung his arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek, holding me close to him. He smelled like cigars instead of cigarettes tonight. And scotch.

"Hello," I grinned up at him and wound my arms around his waist – it was my party after all, and he looked very handsome. "How have you been?" I asked slyly.

Paul laughed and pulled me into his chest again, kissing my hair, maybe smelling me quickly before he let me go and wandered off into the party

"Mal, how the devil have you been?" I demanded, and he grinned toothily at me.